


Out of Hand

by Face_of_Poe



Series: Not Subject to Congressional Approval [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Come as Lube, Consent Issues, Dark!Washington, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Manipulation, Painful Sex, Power Imbalance, intern!Alexander
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-02-23 01:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23703481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Face_of_Poe/pseuds/Face_of_Poe
Summary: Alexander holds himself like a fighter, but if Washington knows anything about him at all, it is surely that much – perhaps even most – of that fight has been waged with and within his mind. The way he holds himself, even now, tense, short and sharp breaths speaking to the adrenaline coursing through him –He’s a fighter. But he’s reckless. Has wandered so very deep into Washington’s snare and he can sense it, smell it,tasteit, but he cannot see it, and that will be his undoing.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/George Washington
Series: Not Subject to Congressional Approval [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1704559
Comments: 14
Kudos: 76





	Out of Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Quaranporn, pt 2. 
> 
> Again, did not use archive warnings. See tags. All fics in this series exist on the dubcon-noncon spectrum, proceed or exit accordingly.

Washington has been at the hotel for the better part of an hour before Hamilton shows up. A drink in the bar – just one, he’s not as young as he once was – and then to his usual oversized suite. Quickly without hurrying. Discreet without being sneaky. The room he prefers, and usually attains, for business and personal liaisons alike. The occurrence of the former making it all the easier to shrug off the latter.

He has enough trusted confidantes to find one who was not otherwise publicly occupied, who might attest to a late night meeting should a problem ever arise.

Thus far, no problem has yet arisen. He’s spent too many years studying his environment, learning what makes this town and the people in it tick.

_This_ – a wealthy, elitist independent treating one of the finest hotels in D.C. as an extension of his own home across the river, dropping in regularly for drinks and dinner, sometimes alone, sometimes not, with regular reservations in the finely appointed rooms upstairs for private meetings, sometimes for business, sometimes not – this is the natural order of things. So obvious it’s hardly worth noticing.

And so no one notices. Certainly no one notices the student, too shifty-eyed with nervous uncertainty to project the _belonging_ that one of his wealthier peers might have done, making his way up to the fifth-floor suite preferred by the oh-so proprietary senator. No one notices him stumble with the mobile key on his phone, sent to him without another word of explanation in the middle of his economics class that afternoon, if the senator remembered his schedule correctly.

The mobile key that makes the concept of _check-in_ obsolete, and enables another entirely invisible sort of discretion in these rendezvouses.

Sometimes, Washington mulls as he watches the boy slip quickly into the room – unnoticed, but mortally terrified of being seen – technological advance is really quite something.

“Good evening, Alexander.”

The door snaps closed behind him and he twitches standing there, holding Washington’s gaze. Anxious, on edge; like a rabbit caught in the fox’s sights and contemplating the uncertain strain of flight versus the sweet relief of surrender.

When Alexander stays there in the doorway, gnawing on his lip and shifting his weight from foot to foot, Washington rises from the armchair and stalks towards him.

Pace heavy; expectant. Jefferson is more the fox than he, all sly and slinking and circumspect with his words. Washington sees a quarry worth taking, and he _takes_ , even if this process has been more protracted than most. A slowly-closing trap, but no less secure for it.

He curls a hand along the boy’s jaw. Thumb tracing his bottom lip, fingers curling into his nape. He takes him and tips his face up and holds him there and thinks on all the ways he wants to ruin this face, this body, this boy, before leaning down and taking his mouth in a punishing kiss.

The noise that escapes from Alexander’s throat is exquisite. Somewhere caught between a gasp and a moan and a squeal, and Washington’s other hand finds itself curling around a narrow hip, fingers tightening hard enough through his clothes to press bruises into unmarred flesh as he forces down the impulse to strip the boy down and force him down on his knees, on the floor, over the arm of the sofa and, maybe, eventually, if he deigns see to the boy’s comfort at all, across the bed upstairs. Any which way and none of them gentle, while he sees what other sounds he can drag forth from those lips.

Alexander though – his inexperience presents a greater challenge than Tallmadge’s clumsy, playful attempts at seduction. If he pushes too hard and too fast, he will break – if for no other reason than that he not only knows not where to draw the line, but _how_.

And this slow trap has to close just so, if he is to drag Alexander over the edge of scaring him off and, instead, ensure he holds the boy under his thrall for as long as he pleases – and he expects to _please_ for some time to come.

He’s gasping, lips swollen and pupils blown, when Washington pulls back. There is fear, and want, and fear of what he wants, shining in those dark eyes, and the urge to shove the boy onto his knees and see those eyes peering up from beneath his lids rises up stronger than before.

Maybe a little indulgence, then. He draws the boy around and drags him back into his chest; lets him feel the unambiguous hardness pressing into the small of his back. “I’ve been thinking about getting my hands back on you,” he murmurs into Alexander’s ear, “since the night I held you down and sucked you off in my chair.” One hand fiddles with the buttons on his shirt; the other, at the fastenings of his pants. He doesn’t yet undo them. “Did you attend to the errands I sent you on this week?”

For a moment he regrets that he’s positioned them so he can’t see the boy’s face, the assured flush of equal parts arousal and humiliation. “Yes, sir.”

He wonders if it was the package from the discreet basement shop near DuPont Circle, or the pre-booked and paid appointment at the private spa with Washington’s very clear instructions for the assorted treatments he was to undergo (and the promise of a generous tip if they could persuade the boy to actually submit to them all) that riles Alexander so.

His hands start at the top of the done buttons on Alexander’s shirt and he works his way down slowly, carefully, careful not to touch any exposed skin. Arms bracketing narrow shoulders. The boy in his grasp and nowhere to go, no one to interrupt.

“I, ah,” he breathes nervously as Washington finishes unbuttoning him and starts to pull the garment down over his shoulders, “I usually expect dinner first.”

“You shouldn’t,” Washington returns wryly, guiding the boy’s hands out from the sleeves, and let him figure that one out as the night progresses on. “Don’t move.”

He goes over to the chair where he’d been sitting and waiting, and drapes the shirt carefully over the back of it. When he returns to hover behind Alexander, he watches his shoulders heave with heavy breaths while he contemplates his next move – and then he takes him by the hips and turns him.

“Hm.” Another red flush under the obvious scrutiny; the lame attempt at joking his way back onto more even footing failed and abandoned. Washington reaches down and unfastens Alexander’s pants, unthreads the button and pulls the zip down, but then he just leaves him like that while he stands and drinks his fill.

He’s wiry, and not in an especially muscled way. Not built the way Tallmadge had been, accidental form maintained by a leisurely, country club adolescence full of swimming and tennis but no real competition. Nor had there been much of one in Tallmadge’s acquisition of the summer internship between semesters at Yale (legacy, naturally), but Washington would be lying if he said he hadn’t made a point to include the intern in the occasional senior staff indulgence of a Sunday morning brunch at his club in Virginia, if only to see those arms in a tight white polo, and that sweat-sheened body in the sauna after with naught but a scrap of a towel around the waist.

Alexander holds himself like a fighter, but if Washington knows anything about him at all, it is surely that much – perhaps even most – of that fight has been waged with and within his mind. The way he holds himself, even now, tense, short and sharp breaths speaking to the adrenaline coursing through him –

He’s a fighter. But he’s reckless. Has wandered so very deep into Washington’s snare and he can sense it, smell it, _taste_ it, but he cannot see it, and that will be his undoing.

He’s a fighter, but he’s a wild thing, a creature wandered into their midst from far outside those rules of privileged society that gave Ben Tallmadge a sure admission to a school that never would have taken Alexander with much better grades, that brought him to Washington’s proverbial doorstep with little more recommendation than his uncle’s generous campaign donation.

Alexander’s a wild thing, and wild things demand to be tamed.

“Sir?”

He lets his eyes slowly drift back up to the boy’s face. There’s self-consciousness there, insecurity, and he supposes he has rather lost himself in thought, in plans. “Apologies, my boy.” He takes his face in hand again and kisses him slow and deep while his other hand splays across the warm skin of his back, holding him close. “You’re beautiful.”

He doesn’t give him time to stammer his way through a bashful response. Distracts him instead with careful, questing fingers tracing down the side of his neck, across a collarbone and back. Both hands trailing down his sides and playing along his ribs, one returning to hold him firm about the waist and the other brushing a teasing thumb across a dark nipple and earning a shocked jolt and a peeved look.

How he dreams of the day Alexander wouldn’t dare give him that look. The day Alexander realizes the labyrinth into which he’s so guilelessly wandered, where it is Washington’s to push and pull and touch and _take_ , and Alexander’s to give that which is demanded.

For now… for now, he smirks at the sensitive reaction, catalogs it for later, and leans in close by Alexander’s ear to whisper, “On your knees, my boy.”

There’s a visible bob in his throat with the nervous swallow, but he lowers himself down with only the slightest hesitation. His eyes track up, watching and waiting, perplexed by their uneven states of dress, and when Washington gives no indication of what he next expects, Alexander eventually reaches tentative hands for his belt.

Washington doesn’t even say anything, just catches him by the wrists and squeezes, once, hard, feels the delicate bones there vulnerable in his grasp, and then pulls both into the grip of one of his own broad hands. It hurts, by the wince on Alexander’s face, the bones surely grinding uncomfortably together, but Washington holds fast and studies him. Those eyes, dark and darting about, for clues, for an escape; a quick tongue running over dried lips; the heave of his chest while he kneels there, held fast.

Eventually, he forces another swallow and manages, “Sir -?”

“Shh,” he murmurs; decides what’s missing, and reaches back to carefully pull the elastic from the boy’s hair. He lets his fingertips card through the strands, push some of the more stubborn ones away from Alexander’s face, before he takes him by the chin and tilts his face up far as it’ll go. “I just want to look at you a moment.”

“You look at me all the time,” Alexander points out after a quick beat, and it really oughtn’t surprise him that the boy can conjure some cheek here, _now_ , like this, literally in his grasp. “It’s very distracting, actually.”

A reluctant chuckle escapes him, and the spell is broken. He releases his hold and gets him under one armpit to haul him back up to his feet. “ _You_ , Alexander, are very distracting.” A sly grin starts to creep over the boy’s face, and just like that he’s in danger of getting his footing, getting too comfortable when Washington needs him to always, always be a touch wrongfooted, out of sync, playing catch-up. So: “Take off your shoes and socks,” he turns away as he gives the instruction. Disinterested, dismissive. “Go upstairs,” he nods at the spiral stairway in the middle of the suite leading to the lofted bedroom. “And wait for me.”

The owlish look Alexander casts at the stairs tells him just how little his ever-diligent intern registered the opulence of his surroundings once he actually made it into the room and found himself pinned under Washington’s gaze. Which makes something heady thrum beneath the senator’s skin as he watches the boy kick out of his shoes, rushed and graceless.

Patience, he’ll learn. One way or another.

Washington takes his time in following. He strips out of his jacket and hangs it by the door, and then steps behind the bar to pour himself another drink, just a finger or so of whiskey. Enough to temper the anticipation making his blood run hot. A brief detour while he leaves Alexander to stew nervously in the finely appointed room that leaves little to the imagination as far as Washington’s intentions must go.

While he sips at the whiskey, he takes a moment to peruse his email – and then frowns thoughtfully for several minutes at a follow-up from Paterson on the agricultural subsidies bill they’ve been trying to hammer out for months now.

A twisted part of him wonders if he should solicit Alexander’s thoughts on the matter – but that strikes him a game for another time.

Once he’s broken the boy in a little.

When he finally does place the glass and his phone on the counter and heads for the stairs, he’s shucked his shoes but remains otherwise dressed. He intends to get his eyes and his hands fully on the boy before giving him something to look forward to – or dread – by way of distraction.

When Washington steps into the bedroom, his lips quirk up in amusement. Less at the indulgent, bored way Alexander is sprawled across the king-sized bed so much as the fact that the chair at the desk opposite is pulled out. Clearly nerves had kept him off the bed before boredom or impatience drove him there while he waited on Washington to attend to his admittedly non-pressing business.

“Comfortable?”

He stretches. Languid, enticing, pants still unfastened and resting low on his hips. “I’ll spare you the comparison with what I’m used to.”

“Extra-long twin. Water-proof mattress that creaks when you move. Bargain bin sheets on a top bunk.”

Alexander grins. “How’d you know the beds are bunked?”

“I’ve seen how you spread out your research in the office, Alexander, your priorities would certainly rest in available floor space.”

The grin widens. “How’d you know I have top?”

“ _Most_ college students’ priorities lie closer to casual liaisons, and no one wants to risk falling and breaking a wrist or worse mid-fellatio.”

Alexander sits up and eyes him contemplatively. “Am I giving or receiving said blowjob in this scenario?”

Washington snorts softly under his breath and doesn’t answer. What he _does_ do is unfasten the cuffs of his shirt and loosen his tie enough to pull it out from under his collar and up over his head. He crosses over to the desk and lays the tie out across it – slowly, measured, and when he turns back, Alexander looks like he’s forgotten how to breathe, without so much as an extra inch of skin shown.

He takes advantage of that sudden dry-mouthed silence without expending much effort to read the flickering look in the boy’s eyes – and really, anticipation and fear are two sides of the same coin and the distinction matters little, for his purposes tonight. He climbs up onto the bed, knees bracketing narrow hips, and pushes Alexander insistently back down onto his back.

A moment of contemplation, and then he leans over him and pulls his arms up over his head and pins them there, letting the heavy press of his weight impress upon Alexander how much he means it when he says, “Don’t move.”

And then he sits back and studies him, all stretched out and debauched, despite having barely been touched. Pink lips parted around panting breaths that have his chest heaving.

It makes for a pretty picture; perhaps even a prettier one than the boy peering up at him from his knees, and for a fleeting moment he wishes he’d not left his phone down on the bar. Though the boy might just yet retain enough common sense to argue against pictures.

Whatever Alexander is expecting, whatever ravishment he envisions and has his pulse racing just so, it is not the slow, gentle way Washington leans back down to give him a fleeting kiss on his chapped lips; the way one hand cups his face while Washington’s mouth wanders down the other side of his neck. Finding the spots that make him jerk in ticklish displeasure, and the ones that raise goosebumps across his exposed flesh.

The way Washington works his way down his body, fingers tracing every rib and the space between while his mouth glides across his chest, a whisper of sensation, a brief sting of teeth just beneath one collarbone and then the other. The way he remembers the boy’s jolting reaction to the teasing touch and, instead, breathes hot air across his nipples and watches the way they stiffen at the stimulation while Alexander whines low in his throat.

The sound goes straight to Washington’s cock. He mouths lower, fleeting kisses across his stomach while fingers trail down his sides, ticklish muscles twitching beneath his touch. When he reaches that place below his navel, where Alexander’s unfastened pants preserve what’s left of his dignity, he hooks his thumbs in the waistband and drags them down without ceremony, sparing a glance for the way the boy’s cock springs free and bounces back against his stomach, before he backs up off the bed and works the pantlegs over and off his feet.

He can _see_ the instinct to cover up threaten to win out. Even beyond the steadily creeping flush, he shifts awkwardly while he lies there; one of his hands opens and clenches closed. “Don’t move,” Washington reminds him.

“Just _looking_ some more?” Alexander tries to snark, but it comes out too ragged, too strained.

“Yes,” Washington answers simply, and finally begins to slowly unbutton his shirt.

He gets halfway down the row before the fidgety anxiousness wins out and Alexander heaves himself back upright. He shuffles to the edge of the bed and then sits there cross-legged, looking ridiculous as he peers beseechingly up at Washington, who pauses his slow undressing to step forward and weave his fingers through long, tousled hair.

His other hand wraps loosely about the boy’s throat, just under his jaw. Thumb caressing his pulse point. “I am not accustomed,” he tells him while he tightens the hand in Alexander’s hair just enough to raise a sharp sting across his scalp, “to being disobeyed.”

The touch at the boy’s neck remains light; his voice, teasing. He relaxes and tightens his hold of the hair fisted in his other hand though. By the way he tips his head and arches his back to relieve the pressure, before rolling his eyes in exasperation, Alexander takes that as more tease than threat as well.

Or perhaps he simply doesn’t register the full power and leverage such a hold grants Washington over him.

_Or_ … eyeing the unflagging erection still straining for the boy’s stomach, the glisten of precome at his slit… perhaps he’s mining new depths within the boy even beyond those which he intended for the night.

Wild things demand to be tamed, but this one also _begs_ for it. In as many ways as possible save the words themselves.

Dexterous fingers that have a pen in them more often than not – even when he’s not writing, the boy usually has one at the ready, twisting absently in his grasp – reach for the button where Washington left off with his shirt. He holds there and peers up, neck craning underneath Washington’s grasp, and asks, “Can I?”

“Can you what?”

Alexander pops it through and then fiddles with the next one while he measures his answer. “Look at you, too.”

“Hm,” Washington moves his hand higher up the boy’s jaw and pulls at his lower with his thumb. “But I like this picture, my boy. Do you remember my fantasy for you like this? In the office?”

By the violent flush that takes over his cheeks, Alexander remembers quite clearly. _Here. While I work. That smart mouth of yours at my disposal._ “Still need to see a _bit_ of you if you want my mouth,” Alexander points out with a valiant attempt at a smirk.

Washington raises a slow, cool brow. Alexander meets his stare, dogged and challenging – less of any true eagerness to put his mouth to use as the desire to understand anything at all about what he’s doing here, what’s expected of him – until Washington releases his hair and nods. “Go on, then.”

The speed with which Alexander attacks his belt would flatter him if he thought it was born from any place besides desperation to deflect and assert some control after being stripped and stared at. Still, he won’t deny the sheer pleasure of nimble fingers reaching for him, wrapping around his constrained cock, pulling it free with some assistance in shoving Washington’s pants lower down his hips.

He ducks his head and leans in and –

“Stop.” Utter, peevish frustration in the boy’s eyes, his face, as he sits back. “Open.” He does – and then has to adjust and open further still when Washington curls his hand around the back of his head to hold him steady and guides his cock between those pink lips. “Hold.”

Alexander blinks owlishly up at him, lips stretched obscenely around the head of his cock, hands poised ready to reach for him but frozen in place at the order.

“Have you ever had a cock in your mouth, Alexander.” A pause, and then he nods, the quickest motion of his head. “Have you ever had one anywhere else?” That redness again creeping across his cheeks. He tries to pull back, pull off to answer, but Washington holds him fast and stares at him expectantly until he shakes it incrementally side-to-side. “Shall I tell you how dearly I’d love to see you riding mine, then?” Alexander’s eyes drift closed on a desperate moan, and Washington tightens his grip around his skull until they fly open again. “How I’d like to force my way into your tight body and teach you to crave that feeling, of being stretched and split open and made to take whatever I deign to give you?”

He lets his hips shift slowly back and forth as he talks, forces the boy to adjust, widen his jaw still more to get his teeth out of the way, wrap his tongue cautiously around the head of Washington’s cock and _Christ_ the wet heat of his mouth is worth the protracted buildup to this moment. He gives him more and more to contend with even as Alexander attempts to process the words, as desperate wanton fear starts to tinge the arousal in his eyes.

Eventually, he gags. Washington holds the position just a second too long, waits for the tears to spring to Alexander’s eyes, before he lets go of him and pulls back. And then, eyes fixed on Alexander’s wide, wet, fearful gaze, he begins slowly removing the rest of his clothing. His shirt goes over the back of the chair; undershirt, folded on the desk with the tie. He’s working on freeing himself from his pants when Alexander finally finds his voice and asks, “Are you going to fuck me?”

“Yes.” He’s terrified enough, no point beating about the bush.

“Tonight?”

That gives Washington pause. He returns to the bed, grabs the boy by the waist, and hauls him further up, away from the edge. Then he climbs up after him and rests overtop him on his elbows, trapped but not quite pinned. Alexander’s breath is coming in faster pants again. “It would be a shame to waste such a magnificent bed, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I just -” He gasps as lips and tongue and teeth assault his neck. “I didn’t think – you sent me to the clinic and I haven’t heard…”

Oh. _Oh_. The third of Alexander’s undoubtedly mortifying errands. Washington almost pities the naivete of the creature caught beneath him. “Dr. Rush emailed me your clean bill of health this morning.”

“This morning,” Alexander repeats blankly. Piecing together at last the rationale between the timing, the time that’s passed since their illicit office encounter. And then, budding lawyer that he aspires to be, the other part of Washington’s words clicks and he demands, “He emailed _you_?”

Far more indignant about the HIPAA violation than any of the presumptuous and lewd things to come out of Washington’s mouth that night. “I did pay the man, after all.”

Washington holds his wide-eyed gaze, unapologetic. Everything, all of his burgeoning schemes for this boy and the remainder of his time in Washington’s office, might just hinge on this moment; on whether Alexander will accept or retreat from the blunt flex of the senator’s power. On the faint trembling in his limbs, the increasingly suspicious fear in his eyes.

The trap closed around him, and naught left but the turning of the lock.

_The uncertain strain of flight versus the sweet relief of surrender._

Washington lets the moment stretch on for several more slow beats before lowering his weight atop the boy, tipping his mouth insistently towards his own, letting his cock drag mercilessly along Alexander’s flagging length.

He gasps and groans, and chooses surrender.

“I didn’t bring anything,” Alexander blurts out when Washington abandons his swollen lips and pushes himself up to his knees and grabs Alexander by the thighs. “I didn’t know…”

“I understand.” He hooks one of the boy’s knees over his forearm and pushes his leg up and back. Spreading him wide so he can get a full look at him at last.

“So…unless you carry lube in your jacket around the Hill all day…”

“Would you know,” Washington murmurs, ghosting a finger down the line of the boy’s cock and then cupping his testicles, rolling them gently in his hand, “I do not.”

There’s a brief pause and then, “…Well, okay then.” A faint echo of relief in his voice.

Foolish, naïve child. “I’m going to put my mouth on you now, Alexander.”

And he does, before the boy can get a word in edgewise. Hands fly up to grasp at his shoulders as he cries out, shocked and overwhelmed and undoubtedly strung far too tight already tonight. Washington counts on it being quick work, and he’s not disappointed. He alternates between a bruising grip at narrow hips, thumbs digging into the prominent bones there, and reaching down to play with his balls, tightly drawn in his desperate arousal.

A careful touch, just a hint of promise, down his perineum and across his tight hole; and then he shifts and grips the boy under his ass, fingers digging into the flesh of his buttocks, levering him up for a better angle and it robs Alexander of any leverage, leaves him helpless in Washington’s firm grip while he swallows him down and drags careful teeth up his shaft.

The noises he drags out of him are incoherent and delightful, and urge him on far too quickly, impatient, ready to wring a whole different blend of sounds out when he has him where he truly wants him.

The warning he gets, such as it is, is nearly as incoherent as the rest. “Please. Sir, please, I can’t…”

Washington drops him down and pulls off, replacing his mouth with a broad hand over the boy’s wet cock. He strokes him hard, mercilessly, until Alexander comes with a cut-off sob and spills across his own belly. Washington continues to torment him at a slower pace as, careful of the mess they’ve just made, he leans down and takes his mouth in a punishing kiss that must have the boy tasting himself on Washington’s tongue.

And then he sits back once more and considers his next step. Alexander is still panting and overwhelmed when Washington swipes two fingers through the mess on his stomach and hitches one of his trembling legs up to expose the boy’s hole. There’s a hiccoughed gasp as Alexander divines his intention a moment before he smears the come messily with both fingers and then returns for more, this time wriggling the tip of one thick finger past the tight muscle.

The boy scrabbles for his shoulders and gasps, “Sir -!” before his words are choked off in a whimpering groan when that finger pulls just as quickly back out and the other takes its place. Then gathering up more of the mess of his stomach and repeat; working as much of the come in and around his hole as he can manage in the absence of any real lubricant.

There’ll be little time for stretching him, but that’s okay – the longer it takes Washington to work his ass open on his cock, the more pre-come will slick his way further and deeper. The anticipation is already rendering his patience thin as tight inner walls squeeze just one digit on the heels of his orgasm, and he can only imagine the vice of his slowly-yielding body as it succumbs to the push and the pressure when he forces his way inside.

Once he’s transferred as much of the ejaculate as he can manage from the boy’s smooth stomach to the increasingly sloppy mess of his ass, he presses the tips of his middle and index fingers in together. Uses his other hand to gather up what come seeps out of his hole and rub it around where his fingers are breaching him, making him whimper as he twists them around, one way and then the other and then scissoring them apart as best he can manage.

Doesn’t waste his time stretching him any deeper. Withdraws and flips Alexander over onto his stomach before collecting any last dribbles of escaping come and using it to stroke his own cock slowly. Rubs his thumb slowly across the head and spreads the pre-come there as he settles into place above the boy. Places a hand at the small of his back when he tries to rise up onto his knees, and then spreads his cheeks apart so he can rub the head of his cock along the shining mess from his hole and down to his drawn testicles.

“Take a deep breath and relax,” he murmurs to the rigid boy beneath him; waits until Alexander processes his words and registers his tense anticipation and sucks in a steadying breath, before pressing the head of his cock against that tight hole until it yields reluctantly beneath him as the boy cries out. “Shh,” he soothes, releasing his grip on Alexander’s ass and taking one of his hands, draws it up over the boy’s head as he lowers himself down, careful not to sink his cock any further just yet.

Alexander jerks once beneath him. Like he’s fighting against the instinct to escape and has nowhere to go, the bigger and heavier weight pinning him, risking driving himself further along the painful intrusion if he struggles too hard.

The moment stretches on; Alexander’s shuddering breaths, the tremors rippling the muscles in his back and shoulders. The hand Washington’s moved up above his head curls into a pillow, clutching desperately at the first thing it reaches, and Washington wraps long fingers around the base of the boy’s skull instead, forces his face sideways so he can see the war raging across it, pain and pleasure, desperate arousal and frozen fear.

He presses incrementally deeper and watches a tear slip past Alexander’s lashes. The body beneath him, around him, is impossibly tight, the pressure heady and addictive, and it takes his all to restrain the urge to plunge as deep and hard as he can in one determined thrust. Instead, he withdraws until the glans catches on the rim of his ass and holds there, teases with the prospect of pulling out of his protesting body altogether before pushing back in. Just a little deeper than before. Gratified to feel the way just a little easier, just enough to slick his path.

A deep, primal part of him revels in hurting the boy; but he does not want to _hurt_ the boy.

Not yet, anyway.

So he keeps up his measured progress. Draped over Alexander’s back, one hand holding his head down and the other gripped firmly around his narrow hip. Pulls nearly out and presses back until he feels the reluctant yielding of untouched flesh, hears another exquisite groan dragged deep from Alexander’s throat, and then relents. Gives him a minute to adjust around the hard length forcing its way into him, and then withdraws and pushes just a little more, a little deeper.

He does this until the tension mostly seeps out of the boy’s frame. Surrender or exhaustion, some combination of both. “You’re doing marvelously, my boy,” Washington commends. Enjoys the red flush that suffuses the back of his neck.

“It _hurts_ ,” Alexander whispers needlessly.

“It will get easier.”

Another wordless tremble beneath him; Washington can guess what he’s thinking. _Never again_ , and he can only imagine the indignation he would face if the boy better had his wits about him. If he’d implied such a thing when he did _not_ have him pinned and vulnerable beneath him, struggling to relax around the cock forcing its way deep with inadequate preparatory attention.

But whatever its source – exhaustion or surrender – the boy’s more subdued state has made his instinctive resistance, the clenching muscles of his ass, yield more readily to the intrusion. So Washington takes him by one knee and bends it, pulls that leg up higher on the bed. Alexander moans at the changed angle, body splayed, more open, and then quietly grunts when Washington pulls out of him entirely.

He studies the boy’s hole, slick with precome. Spreads his cheeks once more and hooks the tips of his thumbs on the swollen rim as it twitches, clenches on the sudden emptiness.

Then he takes his cock in hand and watches the head slowly disappear; barely lets the boy’s rim close around the shaft before pulling back out just as slow, enjoying the strain and stretch and the echoing helpless noises and futile hands gripping tangled sheets. “Does that hurt?” he asks, watching Alexander’s hole swallow him again and again.

“ _Yes_ ,” he gasps.

Watching the way he writhes desperately as he says it; movements making it abundantly clear that despite his protestations, the boy’s cock has regained interest in the night’s proceedings. “But you enjoy it,” Washington deduces, amusement lacing his voice, and when Alexander’s ass strains and slowly opens enough for the head of his cock to pop out the next time, he replaces it instead with two fingers. Presses them deep and hard, angles them brutally into the boy’s prostate while he sobs, “Yes, yes, _please_.”

Some other night – the next one, perhaps – he will milk the boy’s begging. Work him higher and higher with desperation before wringing him out with his cock, his hands, his mouth.

For tonight, he does not need to be told twice, and he removes his fingers, covers Alexander’s body with his own again. Presses him down into the mattress, uses one hand to line himself back up, and slams as deep as he can into his body with one rough thrust.

The shocked, wounded sob that tears from the boy’s throat is secondary only to the tight heat clenching around his cock, but it is a near thing. He grinds his hips and savors the lingering shuddering whimpers, and then grips Alexander by the chin and forces his neck to crane further around, to give him room to seize his mouth in a punishing kiss.

Alexander’s face is a mess of sweat and tears. He gasps into Washington’s mouth when he drags his cock slowly back, inch by inch, and he releases his face and scrapes his teeth along his jaw, the juncture of his neck and shoulder as he sinks back in to the root and Alexander twists his face back into the sheets to muffle his choked cry.

“No,” Washington tilts his face again. Thumbs away a tear and holds until doleful eyes blink blearily up at him. “I want to see you. _Hear_ you.” A wet gasp escapes the boy’s lips. “You take me beautifully, Alexander.”

And it’s true; the raw vulnerability of this moment is everything the senator has craved since he first laid eyes on the sassy boy, giving an earful to Arnold his first morning in the office. He will learn to take him more _easily_ – of that, Washington is confident. But this here, Alexander so overwhelmed but so _pliant_ in the face of the unknown…

After tonight, the boy will have _expectations_ , for better or worse. In this moment, he is wholly under Washington’s power and reliant on his guidance, and he intends to make the most of it.

So he lifts his weight from Alexander’s back. Drags his cock out of his ass impossibly slowly, making sure Alexander can feel every inch of insistent hardness against his aching insides. Teases him for a moment, lets the head catch against his rim and thrusts carefully, gently while the boy tenses in anticipation of the pain of another deep intrusion.

But then he pulls out instead. The tension seeps out of Alexander’s body, just a moment’s reprieve while he waits for the next onslaught. Washington takes him by his narrow hips instead though and drags him up to his knees, earning a muffled squeak of protest while he scrambles to get his hands up under him for balance.

As Washington suspected, his cock is hanging hard and heavy, and there’s a small wet spot on the sheet where he’d been grinding down in search of friction. He swipes two fingers through the mess around the boy’s swollen hole and then reaches around to take his cock in hand, stroking slowly, thumbing idly across the wet head and enjoying the way Alexander’s muscles tremble. So exhausted already, despite his prone position, first flat on his back while Washington pulled him off and then flat on his stomach while he worked him open.

He releases him quickly; just a taste, and then stands and orders silkily, “Up.” Alexander rises shakily to his knees, balance wobbly. “All the way,” Washington corrects, drinking in the subtle winces and careful movements as the boy complies and clambers off the bed. He pulls the boy into his chest; lets his erection press into his stomach, brush against the boy’s own arousal, watches his nervous glance down as he swallows thickly, audibly, before diverting his attention into a demanding kiss.

Once he’s got the boy moaning into his mouth and working his hips in absent little circles, desperate for something, _anything_ , he brushes his lips against his ear and tells him, “I told you I want to see you.”

“Sir?” he breathes.

“I’m going to sit back and let you do the work; forgive an old man’s exhaustion.” Which isn’t true, at all, he could spend half the night wringing those plaintive little whimpers from Alexander’s throat, but he enjoys the humiliated flush that spreads across the boy’s face at the pointed reminder of the difference in their years, their stations.

He props against the headboard and takes Alexander by the hips to guide him as he climbs awkwardly up over his lap. And then laughs when, either missing the point entirely of this exercise or simply reluctant to begin, Alexander settles his weight on Washington’s thighs and just stares at him. “No, no, my boy.” He takes himself in hand and gets a tight grip around one narrow hipbone with the other to urge him back up onto his knees. “You’re going to be a good boy and sit on my cock; and if you do it well,” he lets go of his own length and skims cruelly soft fingertips across Alexander’s instead, “I’ll touch you while you do.”

Alexander whines softly as the fingers retreat. The sound goes straight to Washington’s cock, and Alexander’s eyes flicker down when it twitches, eager to be buried back in the sinfully tight heat of the boy’s ass, one way or another. A glint of understanding flashes through the boy’s eyes; he bites his lip on a grin and sits back again, pulling away from the hand at his hip to perch atop Washington’s thighs. “I’m sore,” he pouts.

Washington swats lightly at the fleshy part of his buttocks and points out, “You will be more so if you act like a spoiled brat.”

“I thought you liked that.” Alexander smooths his palm carefully over Washington’s cock. Teasingly contemplative. “Putting me in my place.”

Perhaps the boy has been paying better attention than Washington realized, even as he was being taken utterly apart. Even as Washington spent weeks winding him tighter and tighter at the office, preparing him for this night and beyond.

They’re already nearly halfway through his internship term; they’re just getting started, and Washington is already thinking ahead to the boy’s return to school full time. Can tell already that this is one he will be unwilling to let go, now that he’s pulled him into his snare.

“And you, Alexander,” he murmurs slowly, considering him. Takes him firmly by the waist and hauls him up and forward. “You enjoy being put there, do you not?” His breath quickens and he squirms in Washington’s hold as he releases one hand so he can line himself up. Feels the head of his cock catch on the boy’s hole and holds him firm. Enough pressure to _feel_ him; not enough to press in. “You push yourself relentlessly in every other facet of your life in the quest for perfection, the desperation for someone _else’s_ approval.” Dark eyes glitter, pupils blown in his unusually open, vulnerable face. “Do you crave _mine_ , my boy?”

“Yes,” he admits in a soft whisper.

“Then do as I say, and prove it to me.”

The reluctance is not entirely an act; he _must_ be sore, and he visibly steels himself against the burn of the stretch before sinking down sharply, surprising Washington as he takes in the head of his cock with one rough movement. He gasps as he does it, eyes squeezing shut and face tightening in a grimace.

Washington follows through on his earlier words and gets a firm grip around the boys erection; takes only a couple of rough strokes to bring it back to full hardness, and this is a new sort of heavenly torture. Alexander panting and squirming on his cock, pinned between the pain against his abused insides and the pleasure of the hand wrapped around his flushed cock. “A good start,” Washington praises, stroking him slowly as Alexander seeks a tolerable position while he adjusts to the thick intrusion in his ass. He palms over the head and collects the first shining drops of pre-come while the boy presses himself down just barely further so the thick head isn’t pushing so insistently against his rim and stops.

So Washington stops, too. Loosens his grip and watches him expectantly. Can’t help the light chuckle that slips past his lips when tired shoulders slump further in dejection, hoping Washington would forget his terms, hoping this would be enough. Another plaintive whine. “It hurts _more_ this way.”

He’s sincere enough, so Washington takes a bit of pity on him. Resumes fisting his cock, squeezes a little tighter, uses his other hand to curl under one trembling thigh to help steady him. “Let the pleasure balance against the pain. Move with me.”

Alexander doesn’t understand at first, so Washington thrusts up gently to demonstrate as he pulls his hand back. Sets a careful rhythm until Alexander is working to meet it with him, and then lies back again and enjoys the sensation of slowly yielding flesh parting around the sensitive head of his cock where it’s buried deeper and deeper in the boy.

He’s shaking while he does it, but he lowers himself slowly by small degrees. Eyes pressed closed, lips parted around short little gasps with every movement. Sweat plastering his hair to his forehead and shining across his chest as his ass swallows him reluctantly.

When he finally, _finally_ bottoms out, Alexander opens his eyes and they’re rimmed red, shining with tears. His cock is flushed and slick with precome, hard and surely aching.

“Good boy,” Washington breathes. He cups the boy’s sweaty face in one broad hand and draws him closer for a ravaging kiss that just leaves him panting harder. His other hand continues working over his engorged erection, quick and relentless now that the boy’s accomplished his task. “Now come again for me, like this.”

The words have barely left his mouth before Alexander closes his eyes and throws his head back, rocking back and forth on his cock in search of that perfect pressure against that particular spot. He rises up on shaky knees, just enough to find that sweet drag of the head of Washington’s cock against his prostate, and then he’s shaking apart completely, his release spilling over Washington’s hand and down onto his stomach.

It takes all of his carefully-honed willpower not to spill deep inside the boy right then. His ass clenches down on him so hard it borders on painful, and the sight of him perched so wantonly in his lap is nearly enough in its own right. He reaches up and tweaks one hard nipple and then the other, just to enjoy that extra overstimulated cry as Alexander begins to come back to himself.

Washington coaxes the boy down to tuck his face into his shoulder. Runs his fingers through his hair, feels the harsh rise and fall of his sweat-slicked chest. “Are you satisfied, Alexander?” An incoherent mumble and slow nod of his head are his only response, and Washington chuckles. “I’m glad.” Runs his hands slowly down too-thin ribs, his waist, over the swell of his ass. Digs his fingertips into the meat of his buttocks and holds him in an unyielding grip as he drags him up almost off his cock and drops him back down, letting gravity do the work in the boy’s disoriented state.

The choked sound that Alexander makes then is quickly followed by frantic attempts to wriggle free. But holding him as he is, Washington’s strong arms are pinning his shoulders and he can find no purchase even as Washington drags him up and shoves him back down again even harder, eliciting another pained keen.

“Stop, _god_ , it’s too much, _please…_ ”

Washington gets his feet up flat and uses the leverage to pound brutally up and bury himself once, twice, three more times deep in the boy’s battered ass. Holds him down as he spills with a protracted groan, and then works his hips in gentle, idle thrusts, feeling the mess of his come coating his cock and waiting for Alexander to cease his futile struggles.

He wears himself out eventually, or recognizes the pointed torment. Heaves a choked breath, somewhere between a sob and a gasp and goes limp once more against Washington. Tears and spit and Alexander’s sweat mixing in with his own after the night’s exertions. “If you’re quite finished,” he says sardonically to the shuddering figure sprawled across him, and gets a wounded glare in return.

He releases him; makes Alexander do the work of climbing back up off his cock, but it’s already softening and probably a less unpleasant task for it. Still, he winces and cringes and trembles all the while, hurt and overwhelmed but entirely too exhausted to fight it when Washington pulls him down to the bed and rolls him so that they’re face-to-face.

Alexander’s lips move automatically when Washington takes them in a languid kiss, but he’s distant, limp, past the point of processing the night’s physical and emotional turmoil.

At least until he reaches around and prods at the sloppy mess of his hole with two thick fingers. He gets a low whine of protest, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t try to avoid any further injustices. Washington just rubs at him though, feels the come leaking out from his twitching and sensitive rim.

“I’ve never been one much for toys,” Washington muses aloud. “But how dearly I’d enjoy plugging you right now, my boy. Keep you slick and open for me.” Alexander’s eyes fly open in alarm, and Washington smiles sharply. Cruelly. “Calm yourself, Alexander, I have no such novelties on hand with which to prolong your torment.”

Not yet, anyway.


End file.
